Letters from Spain

I do not mean, however, to pester you with a dissertation. Wretched as is the present state of Spanish literature, it would require a distinct series of letters to trace the causes of its decay, to relate the vicissitudes it has suffered, and to weigh the comparative merits of such as, under the deadening influence of the most absolute despotism, are still endeavouring to feed the smouldering fire, which, but for their efforts, would have long since been extinguished.

You will, I trust, excuse this short digression, in the sure hope that I shall resume the usual gossip in my next letter.

LETTER XII

Seville, July 25, 1808.

Acquainted as you must be with the events which, for these last two months, have fixed the eyes of Europe on this country, it can give you little surprise to find me dating again from my native town. I have arrived just in time to witness the unbounded joy which the defeat of Dupont’s army, at Baylen, has diffused over this town. The air resounds with acclamations, and the deafening clangour of the Cathedral bells, announces the arrival of the victorious General Castaños, who, more surprised at the triumph of his arms than any one of his countrymen, is just arrived to give thanks to the body of Saint Ferdinand, and to repose a few days under his laurels.

There is something very melancholy in the wild enthusiasm, the overweening confidence, and mad boasting which prevail in this town. Lulled into a security which threatens instant death to any who should dare disturb it with a word of caution, both the Junta and the people look on the present war as ended by this single blow; and while they spend, in processions and Te-Deums, the favourable moments when they might advance on Madrid, their want of foresight, and utter ignorance of the means of retaliation possessed by the enemy, induce them loudly to call for the infraction of the capitulation which has placed a French army in their power. The troops, which the articles agreed upon entitle to a conveyance to their own country, are, by the effect of popular clamour, to be confined in hulks, in the Bay of Cadiz. General Dupont is the only individual who, besides being treated with a degree of courtesy and respect, which, were it not for the rumours afloat, would bring destruction upon the Junta; has been promised a safe retreat into France. He is now handsomely lodged in a Dominican convent, and attended by a numerous guard of honour. The morning after his private arrival, the people began to assemble in crowds, and consequences fatal to the General were dreaded. Several members of the Junta, who were early to pay the general their respects, and chiefly one Padre Gil,52 a wild, half-learned monk, whose influence over the Sevillian mob is unbounded; came forward, desiring the multitude to disperse. Whether truth and the urgency of the case forced out a secret, known only to the Junta; or whether it was an artifice of the orator, who, among his eccentricities and mountebank tricks, must be allowed the praise of boldness in openly condemning the murders of which the mob has been guilty; he asserted in his speech, that “Spain was more indebted to Dupont than the people were aware of.” These words, uttered with a strong and mysterious emphasis, had the desired effect, and the French general has now only to dread the treatment which may await him in France, in consequence of his defeat and surrender.

Having made you acquainted with the only circumstances in the last most important event, which the public accounts are not likely to mention, I shall have done with news—a subject to which I feel an unconquerable aversion—and begin my account of the limited field of observation in which my own movements, since the first approach of the present troubles, have placed me.

The first visible symptom of impending convulsions was the arrest of Ferdinand, then Prince of Asturias, by order of his father. My inseparable companion, Leandro, had been for some time acquainted with a favourite of the Prince of the Peace, who, being like my friend, addicted to music, had often asked us to his amateur parties. On the second of last November we were surprised by a letter from that gentleman, requesting my friend to proceed to the Escurial without delay, on business of great importance. As we walked to the Puerta del Sol, to procure a one-horse chaise, called Caleza, the news of the Prince’s arrest was whispered to us, by an acquaintance, whom we met at that winter resort of all the Madrid loungers. We consulted for a few minutes on the expediency of venturing near the Lion’s den, when his Majesty was so perfectly out of all temper; but curiosity and a certain love of adventure prevailed, and we set off at a round trot for the Escurial.

The village adjacent to the building bearing that name, is one of the meanest in that part of Castille. Houses for the accommodation of the King’s suite have been erected at a short distance from the monastic palace, which the royal family divide with the numerous community of Hieronymites, to whom Philip II. assigned one wing of that magnificent structure. But such as, following the Court on business, are obliged to take lodgings in the neighbourhood, must be contented with the most wretched hovels. In one of these we found our friend, Colonel A., who, though military tutor to the youngest of the King’s sons, might well have exchanged his room and furniture for such as are found in England at the most miserable pot-house. My intimacy with Leandro was accepted as an excuse for my intrusion, and we were each accommodated with a truckle-bed, quickly set up in the two opposite corners of the Colonel’s sitting-room. The object of the summons which had occasioned our journey, was not long kept a secret. The clergyman who superintended the classical studies of the Infante Don Francisco de Paula, was suspected of having assisted the Prince of Asturias in the secret application to Buonaparte, which had produced the present breach in the royal family. Should the proofs of his innocence, which the tutor had presented to the King and Queen, fail to re-establish him in their good opinion, my friend would be proposed as a successor, and enter without delay upon the duties of the office. The whole business was to be decided in the course of the next day. The present being the commemoration of the Departed, or All-Souls’ Day, we wished to visit the church during the evening service. On taking leave of the Colonel, he cautioned us not to approach that part of the building where the Prince was confined under a guard, to his own apartments.

Though this was our first visit to the Escurial, the disclosure which had just been made to my friend, was of too important a nature to leave us in a fit mood to enjoy the solemn grandeur of the structure to which we were directing our steps, and the rude magnificence of the surrounding scene. To be placed near one of the members of the royal family, when that family had split into two irreconcileable parties, and to be reckoned among the enemies of the heir apparent, was, at once, to plunge headlong into the most dangerous vortex of Court intrigue which had yet threatened to overwhelm the country. To decline the offer, when the candidate’s name had in all probability received the sanction of the Prince of the Peace, was to incur suspicion from those who had arbitrary power in their hands. In this awkward dilemma, our most flattering prospect was the acquittal of the tutor, an event by no means improbable, considering the well-known dulness of that grave personage, and the hints of the approaching release of the Prince, which we had gathered from the Colonel. We therefore proposed to divert our thoughts from the subject of our fears by contemplating the objects before us.

The Escurial incloses within the circuit of its massive and lofty walls, the King’s palace, the monastery, with a magnificent church, and the Pantheon, or subterranean vault of beautiful marble, surrounded with splendid sarcophagi, for the remains of the Spanish Kings and their families. It stands near the top of a rugged mountain, in the chain which separates Old from New Castille, and by the side of an enormous mass of rock, which supplied the architect with materials. It was the facility of quarrying the stone where it was to be employed, that made the gloomy tyrant, Philip II., mark out this wild spot in preference to others, equally sequestered and less exposed to the fury of the winds, which blow here with incredible violence. To have an adequate shelter from the blast, an ample passage, well aired and lighted, was contrived by the architect from the palace to the village.

The sullen aspect of the building; the bleak and rude mountain top, near which it stands more in rivalry than contrast; the wild and extensive glen opening below, covered with woods of rugged, shapeless, stunted ilex, surrounded by brushwood; the solitude and silence which the evening twilight bestowed on the whole scenery, increased to the fancy by the shy and retiring manners of a scanty population, trained under the alternate awe of the Court, and their own immediate lords, the monks,—all this, heightened by the breathless expectation which the imprisonment of the heir apparent had created, and the cautious looks of the few attendants who had followed the royal family on this occasion; impressed us with a vague feeling of insecurity, which it would be difficult to express or analyze. No one except ourselves and the monks, perambulating the aisles with lighted tapers in their hands, in order to chant dirges to the memory of the founder and benefactors, was to be seen within the precincts of the temple. The vaults re-echoed our very steps when the chorus of deep voices had yielded to the trembling accents of the old priest who presided at the ceremony. To skulk in the dark, might have excited suspicion, and to come within the glare of the monks’ tapers, was the sure means of raising their unbounded curiosity. We soon therefore glided into the cloisters next to the church. But, not being well acquainted with the locality of the immense and intricate labyrinth which the monastery presents to a stranger, the fear of getting upon forbidden ground, or of being locked up for the night, induced us to retire to our lodgings.

With the approbation of our host, we ventured the next morning to apply to the monk, who acts, by appointment, as the Cicerone of the monastery, for a view of the chief curiosities it contains. He allowed us a walk in the magnificent and valuable library, which is said to be one of the richest European treasures of ancient manuscripts—a treasure, indeed, which, amidst those mountains, and under the control of an illiberal government and a set of ignorant, lazy monks, may be said to be hid in the earth. The collection of first-rate pictures at the Escurial is immense; and the walls may be said to be covered with them. One has only to lounge about the numerous cloisters of the Monastery, to satiate the most craving appetite for the beauties of art. Our guide, however, who took no pleasure in going over the same ground for the ten-thousandth time, hurried us to the collection of relics, in which he seemed to take a never failing delight. I will not give you the list of these spiritual treasures. It fills up a large board from three to four feet in length, and of a proportionate breadth, at the entrance of the choir. Yet I cannot omit that we were shewn the body of one of the innocents massacred by Herod, and some coagulated milk of the Virgin Mary. The monk cast upon us his dark, penetrating eyes, as he exhibited these two most curious objects;—but the air of the Escurial has a peculiar power to lengthen and fix the muscles of the face. There is, in the same room which contains the relics, a curious box of a black shining wood, probably ebony, the whole lid of which is covered, on the inside, with the wards of a most complicated lock. It is said to have contained the secret correspondence of the unfortunate Don Carlos, which his unnatural father, Philip II., made the pretext for his imprisonment, and probably for the violent death which is supposed to have ended his misery.

On returning from the inspection of the Monastery, our suspense was relieved by the welcome intelligence that the Infante’s tutor had been fully acquitted. The Prince of Asturias, we were told also, had mentioned to the King the names of his advisers, and was now released from confinement. My friend was too conscious of the danger which, in the shape of promotion, had hung over his head for some hours, not to rejoice in what many would call his disappointment. He had probably dallied some moments with ambition; but, if so, he was fortunate enough to perceive that she had drawn him to the brink of a precipice.

The Prince of the Peace had, against his custom, remained at Madrid during the Escurial season, that he might escape the imputation of promoting the unhappy divisions of the royal family. Something was rumoured at Madrid of a dismemberment of Portugal intended by Bonaparte, in consequence of which Godoy was to obtain an independent sovereignty. This report, originally whispered about by the friends of the latter, was completely hushed up in a few days; while, instead of the buoyancy of spirits which the prospect of a crown was likely to produce in the favourite, care and anxiety were observed to lurk in all his words and motions. He continued, however, holding his weekly levees; and as the French troops were pouring into the Spanish territory, endeavoured to conceal his alarm by an air of directing their movements. When, however, the French had taken almost violent possession of some of our fortresses, and were seen advancing to Madrid with Murat at their head, there was no farther room for dissimulation. Though I had no object at Godoy’s levees but the amusement of seeing a splendid assembly, open to every male or female who appeared in a decent dress; that idle curiosity happened to take me to the last he held at Madrid. He appeared, as usual, at the farthest end of a long saloon or gallery, surrounded by a numerous suite of officers, and advanced slowly between the company, who had made a way for him in the middle. Such as wished to speak to him took care to stand in front, while those who, like myself, were content to pay for their admission with a bow, kept purposely behind. Godoy stood now before the group, of which I formed one of the least visible figures, and bowing affably, as was his manner, said, in a loud voice, “Gentlemen, the French advance fast upon us; we must be upon our guard, for there is abundance of bad faith on their side.” It was now evident that Napoleon had cast off the mask under which he was hitherto acting; and such as heard this speech had no doubt that the arrival of Izquierdo, Godoy’s confidential agent at Paris, had at once undeceived him; filling him with shame and vexation at the gross artifice to which he had been a dupe.

This happened about the beginning of March. The Court had proceeded to their spring residence of Aranjuez, and the Prince of the Peace joined the royal family soon after. A visible gloom had, by this time, overcast Madrid, arising chiefly from a rumour, that it was intended by the King and Queen to follow the example of the Portuguese family, and make their escape to Mexico. Few among the better classes were disposed, from love or loyalty, to oppose such a determination. But Madrid and the royal Sitios would sink into insignificance, were the Court to be removed to a distance. The dissolution of the most wretched Government always fills its dependents with consternation; and the pampered guards with which the pride of Spanish royalty had surrounded the throne, could not endure to be levelled, by the absence of the sovereign, with the rest of the army. The plan, therefore, of a flight out of Spain, with the ocean at the distance of four hundred miles, was perfectly absurd and impracticable.

The departure of the royal family had, with all possible secrecy, been fixed for the 19th of March. Measures, however, were taken by Ferdinand’s friends, on the first appearance of preparations for the journey, to defeat the intentions of the King, the Queen, and the favourite. Numbers of the peasantry were sent to Aranjuez from villages at a considerable distance; and the Spanish foot-guards, the Walloons, and the horse-guards engaged to support the people. Soon after midnight, before the 19th, a furious attack was made by the populace on the house of the Prince of the Peace, who, leaping out of his bed, had scarcely time to escape the knives which were struck, in frenzied disappointment, where the warmth of the sheets clearly shewed how recently he had left them. As the doors were carefully guarded, no doubt remained of his being still in the house; and after the slight search which could be made by artificial light, it was determined to guard all the outlets till the approaching day.

The alarm soon spread to the royal palace, where the Prince’s friends, among whom policy had ranged at this critical moment, the ministers who owed most to Godoy; hailed, in the King’s terror, and the Queen’s anxiety to save the life of her lover, the fairest opening for placing Ferdinand on the throne. Day-light had enabled the ringleaders to begin the most active search after the Prince of the Peace; and the certainty of his presence on the spot rendered his destruction inevitable. It does honour, indeed, to the affectionate and humane character of Charles, whatever we may think of his other qualities, that he resigned the crown from eagerness to rescue his faithless friend. The King’s abdication was published to the multitude, with whom the guards had taken an open and decided part, and Ferdinand appeared on horseback to fulfil the engagement he had made to his parents of protecting the favourite from the assassins. The unfortunate man, after a confinement of more than twelve hours, in a recess over the attics of his house, where he had lurked, with scarcely any clothing, and in absolute want of food and drink, was, if I may credit report, compelled by thirst to beg the assistance of a servant who betrayed him to his pursuers. What saved him from falling on the spot, a victim to the fierceness of his enemies—whether the desire of the leaders to inflict upon him a public and ignominious death, or some better feelings, of such as, at this fearful moment, surrounded his person—I am not able to tell. Nor would I deprive the new King of whatever claim to genuine humanity his conduct on this occasion may have given him. I can only state the fact that, under his escort Godoy was carried a prisoner to the Horse-guard Barracks, not, however, without receiving some severe wounds on the way, inflicted by such as would not miss the honour of fleshing their knives on the man whom but a few hours before, they would not have ventured to look boldly in the face.

The news of the revolution at Aranjuez had spread through the capital by the evening of the 19th; and it was but too evident that a storm was gathering against the nearest relations of Godoy. Night had scarcely come on, when a furious mob invaded the house of Don Diego, the favourite’s younger brother. The ample space which the magnificent Calle de Alcalá leaves at its opening into the Prado, of which that house forms a corner, afforded room not only for the operations of the rioters, but for a multitude of spectators, of whom I was one myself. The house having been broken into, and found deserted, the whole of the rich furniture it contained was thrown out at the windows. Next came down the very doors, and fixtures of all kinds, which, made into an enormous pile with tables, bedsteads, chests of drawers, and pianos, were soon in a blaze, that, but for the stillness of the evening, might have spread to the unoffending neighbourhood. Having enjoyed this splendid and costly bonfire, the mob ranged themselves in a kind of procession, bearing lint-torches, taken from the numerous chandlers-shops which are found at Madrid; and directed their steps to the house of the Prince Franciforte, Godoy’s brother-in-law.

The magistrates, however, had by this time fixed a board on the doors both of that and Godoy’s own house, giving notice that the property both of the favourite and his near relations had been confiscated by the new King. This was sufficient to turn away the mob from the remaining objects of their fury; and without any farther mischief, they were contented with spending the whole night in the streets, bearing about lighted torches, and drinking at the expense of the wine-retailers, whose shops, like your pot-houses, are the common resort of the vulgar. The riot did not cease with the morning. Crowds of men and women paraded the streets the whole day, with cries of “Long live King Ferdinand!—Death to Godoy!” The whole garrison of Madrid were allured out of their barracks by bands of women bearing pitchers of wine in their hands; and a procession was seen about the streets in the afternoon, where the soldiers, mixed with the people, bore in their firelocks the palm-branches which, as a protection against lightning, are commonly hung at the windows. Yet, amidst this fearful disorder, no insult was offered to the many individuals of the higher classes, who ventured among the mob. Nothing, however, appears to me so creditable to the populace of Madrid, as their abstaining from pillage at the house of Diego Godoy—every article, however valuable, was faithfully committed to the flames.

Murat, with his army, was, during these events, at a short distance from Madrid. The plan of putting the royal family to flight had been frustrated by the popular commotion at Aranjuez, and the unexpected accession of Ferdinand. But the new King, no less than his parents, hastening by professions of friendship to court the support of French power, Murat proceeded to the Spanish capital, there to pursue the course which might be most conducive to the views of his sovereign. I saw the entrance of the division which was to make the town their head-quarters. The rest occupied the environs, some in a camp within half a mile, and some in the neighbouring villages. The French entered as friends, and they cannot say that the inhabitants shewed, upon that occasion, the least symptoms of hostility. The prominent feeling which might be observed in the capital, was a most anxious expectation; but I know several instances of French soldiers relieved by the common people; and had Murat acknowledged Ferdinand VII., he with his troops would have been hailed and treated as brothers.

The French troops had been but a few days at Madrid, when Ferdinand left Aranjuez for his capital, where Murat inhabited the magnificent house of the Prince of the Peace, within a very short distance of the royal palace. From thence he encouraged the young King’s hopes of a speedy recognition by the Emperor, excusing himself, at the same time, for taking no notice of Ferdinand’s approach and presence, either by himself or his troops. Without any other display but that of the most enthusiastic applause from the multitude, Ferdinand, on horseback, and attended by a few guards, appeared at the gate of Atocha. I had placed myself near the entrance, and had a full view of him, as, surrounded by the people on foot, he moved on slowly, up the beautiful walk called El Prado. Never did monarch meet with a more loyal and affectionate welcome from his subjects; yet, never did subjects behold a more vacant and unmeaning countenance, even among the long faces of the Spanish Bourbons. To features not at all prepossessing, either shyness or awkwardness had added a stiffness, which, but for the motion of the body, might induce a suspicion that we were wasting our greetings on a wax figure.

As if for the sake of contrast, Murat, whose handsome figure on horseback was shewn to the greatest advantage by a dress almost theatrical, appeared every Sunday morning in the Prado, surrounded by generals and aid-de-camps, no less splendidly accoutred, there to review the picked troops of his army. Numbers of people were drawn at first by the striking magnificence of this martial spectacle; but jealousy and distrust were fast succeeding to the suspense and doubt which the artful evasions of the French Prince had been able to keep up for a time.

The first burst of indignation against the French was caused by their interference in favour of the Prince of the Peace. The people of Madrid were so eager for the public execution of Godoy, that when it was known that the man on whose hanging carcase they daily expected to feast their eyes, was proceeding out of the kingdom under a French escort; loud and fierce murmurs from all quarters of the town announced the bitter resentment of disappointed revenge. It was, nevertheless, still in the power of Napoleon to have kept the whole nation at his devotion, by making the long-expected recognition of Ferdinand. Even when, through the unworthy artifices which are already known to the world, Ferdinand had been decoyed to Bayonne, and the greatest anxiety prevailed at Madrid as to the result of the journey, I witnessed the joy of an immense multitude collected at the Puerta del Sol, late in the evening, when, probably with a view to disperse them, the report was spread that the courier we had seen arrive, brought the intelligence of Napoleon’s acknowledgement of the young King, and his determination to adopt him by marriage into his own family. The truth, however, could not be concealed any longer; and the plan of usurpation, which was disclosed the next morning, produced the clearest indications of an inevitable catastrophe.